There are several things I have yet to perfect when it comes to parenthood. Like, how to get my child to hate hot dogs. Or how to casually put my child in a shopping cart (it’s all limbs flailing and screeching when I try it). Or, more recently, how to maintain a livable household while sick. Derek and I have both been sick for days.
Like, miss work, kind of sick. Like, screw cooking, let’s have cereal for dinner, kind of sick. Like, let’s lay on the couch and watch the Food Network, kind of sick.
In the past, when both of us got sick at the same time, it wasn’t the end of the world. I didn’t feel guilty about letting the dust bunnies pile up under the couch, or having ice cream for lunch because my throat hurts. But now that we’re parents, it just seems wrong.
There’s a little boy who needs his bath. So while my husband and I wallow in our sickly filth, we scrub up our little man in between blowing our noses and coughing into the inside of our elbow.
And while cooking is the last thing I want to do, our little man makes due with a hard boiled egg and some apple yobaby yogurt. We all eat the oranges, though. We need the Vitamin C.
I lay on the couch, under an old comforter and read him book after book. I drift off to sleep while he watches Sesame Street and Thomas the Tank Engine. He’s happy as a clam and I don’t care that he’s watching TV. I’ll just be over here dying from the Bubonic Plague or whatever the hell I’ve contracted.
Hopefully we’ll all be healthy within the next day or two. And I really, really, really hope Riley doesn’t catch this. For as much as I hate being sick, I would rather take care of my sick self than a sick little boy.